


Visiting Hours

by lilypond8



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Political Prisoners, everyone's a scammer, implied human trafficking, nothing graphic, prisoner au, questionable business practices, themes of isolation, themes of mental illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilypond8/pseuds/lilypond8
Summary: Aspiring to climb the ranks, Claude may have taken on more than he can handle.Political Prisoner AU
Relationships: Cyril & Claude von Riegan, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 72





	1. Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter has been updated! I posted this at like 1 in the morning because I was tired of writing essays and wanted to write literally anything else. SO I retooled this first part, and I've thought about all these things and themes I want to explore. Expect different pov's and more character interactions as per the tags!

He has a visitor. 

It comes as a shock, as everything is static in this place. He knows his charges, his crimes, and understands the weight of the metal cuff around his ankle more than anyone. And that’s how it’s supposed to be forever, just him compressing under the stillness of it all.

The dust in the air is not to be disturbed, nor is the chess set on the table. When he’d first seen it, it seemed cruel, almost mocking. To be given a game made for two. It was only later that he understood that it was just another reminder of his place.

Nothing is supposed to change here, but there he is, the nondescript man in his nondescript suit. He watches, eyes sharp and clear. And sometimes, he even speaks.

“Chess huh? I’m not particularly fond of the game, but I heard it’s pretty common here.” His smile is languid, like he’s catching up with an old friend and entering the presence of a condemned man. “Do you like chess?” He asks. It’s the first time he’s said anything, despite his silent visiting for months.

The prisoner says nothing.

“I take it you’re the shy type. That’s ok, I’ve been told I’m pretty good at carrying the conversation.” The man winks at him from under long lashes. When it’s clear he’ll get no response, he rolls up his sleeve to move the ivory pieces across the board. The Prisoner’s gaze never leaves the man, and he watches with rapt attention as his fingers glide gracefully across the board to move a ink stained pawn.

It continued like that for a while. Everyday the man would prance into the cell like he owned the place (and the thing inside it) and play two one-sided games. One on the board and the other with his tongue. He never said anything of use. No mention of friends or family, or anything beyond these four white walls. Still, the idle chatter was… a change.

“You’ve gotten pretty docile, haven’t you. Not nearly as...handsy as that first meeting.” The man says offhandedly. But he remembers. 

_There was nothing stopping him, that first day, from crushing this man. The restraints fell like streamers all around him, metal bending beneath the rage he felt. Not against this man, but against the walls that entrapped him. This man- his visitor, was a stepping stone at best and an obstacle at worst. He was tired of waiting for an opening that would never come. The game and table were toppled, left forgotten as his hands gripped the man by the slender curve of his neck. Then there was a pinch, and an unending, overwhelming drowsiness took his consciousness. He awoke the next day with his restraints renewed, and his chain shortened._

He didn’t see the man after that for a long time. At least it was what he thought was a long time. In truth the artificial lights made things...soft. The lights blurred the edges between day and night. Until one the day the man came back, and he had a reason to count the days again.

“Are all accused murders this quiet?” He muses to himself, and in turn successfully pulls the chained man back to reality. His disassociation had given the man ample time to reset the chessboard, having won against himself, again.

Despite his visits being the only variation within the parameters of his punishment, his visitor can’t seem to resist routine. He will play one more game and then disappear through those doors. The man lets an easy-going smile grace his face and asks the same question he asked everyday for the past month, “Tell me, why are you here again?”

“Why.” It’s the first thing he’s dared to speak since...since then. But it’s enough to loosen the tightness in his throat and for what feels like the first time in years he takes a breath. “You, know what I did.”

The man seems giddy at this. As if all that time spent babbling on about nothing has finally cracked the code. And in a way he supposes that’s not untrue. The man speaks up, suppressing his excitement in a way that could only be described as professional. He’s practiced. “Oh sure I do, but I’d rather hear it from you instead,” The smile on his face is more akin to a fox’s. He must have pulled a face as the man’s smile melts somewhat as he rushes to continue, “Don’t act like that. It’s just, well, in my line of work it seems that information isn’t as useful as how it is conveyed.”

He casts his gaze downward at the untouched game. “...And what do you mean by that?”

“Information is important, sure. It keeps the world spinning on its axis, and is keeping you-” caged, that is the word he refuses to say. “-restrained . But the disclosure of that information, that is what interests me-“ He makes his moves without looking at the board. “- as it changes everything. And I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t at least ask for your side of the story.”

A stillness falls over the room. The story was out there. Every news outlet had run their own version of the story- of what had happened and most didn’t bother looking beyond headlines and one sentence synopsis. Of all his time spent locked away, no one had ever asked for his side of the story. He gives his thoughts physical form, “Why?”

“Call it,” The man stalls, looking for the right word, “Call it, curiosity.” 

Ah. So that is what this is all about. Well, If that’s the case then...”No. Leave.”

His visitor sighs, “That’s not-“

“Go” He growls, feeling the rage build up in the empty cavity of his chest. He leaves the word hanging in the air between them, looking pointedly anywhere his visitor is not.

The man with his nondescript clothes and less descriptive face gives him an appraising look. Inquisitive has never been apart of the vocabulary he’d use to describe the kinds of looks he gets in the kind of place this is. But still it’s not regret that graces his features. 

He stares a moment longer, then the man's eyes drop, and with a sigh, he leaves the game unplayed.

And maybe, when the game pieces are all accounted for and the lights are dimmed, he wonders if that would be the last conversation he’d ever have. 

————-

It is a week before the man visits again. 

“I figured we could play a different game from time to time, but I didn’t realize how far security was gonna crawl up my ass.” He enters. This time hefting a moderately sized box under his arm. “You do like Jenga, right?” He smiles, showing off the orange box’s logo. “You seem like a Jenga kind of guy.” 

He plays the first two sets alone all the while rambling about his day. It’s confusing at first, why is the game centered around keeping the tower standing if the premise is to remove it’s support? It is asinine, and yet peculiar.

“Yea, It’s not the best game, But it’s better than chess, right?” He says while tapping a peculiar block out of place with his finger. He gets it loose enough and it slides out of place well enough. “Here,” he holds the wooden block out towards him. 

He sees an olive branch, and decides to take it. And no sooner learns that he is not a Jenga kind of guy. He’s lost the fine motor skills required for this kind of game, and sighs when the tower falls for the fourth time.

His visitor just smiles at him. “It’s an acquired taste.” 

There’s a pregnant pause, and he knows there’s something on his visitor’s mind. Sure, the man has prodded, asked questions and made a general nuisance of himself, but he’s never been shy about anything. He doesn’t have the usual tells. He’s not fidgety or anxious, but there’s something familiar about the look in his eyes. It’s only when his visitor goes to speak does he see it. He’s looking for an opening. 

“You know, I find it incredibly interesting that people are fascinated with the things that defy description. Tell me, what color is a soap bubble? It’s clear of course, you can leer right through it, if you don’t mind getting soap in your eyes. But the sun paints rainbow patterns across its face. It’s iridescent. And people spend their lives chasing that. Holographic dyes have been plastered onto every available surface and sewn into every piece of clothing, not because we like the way it looks, but because we enjoy the way it changes.”

“Why are you telling me this?” It’s the only thing he seems to be able to say.

The man shrugs. “I don’t really know. Maybe you’re my iridescent stone?” It’s said jokingly and the absence of laughter only makes that clearer. He clears his throat. “You sit here, looking alive enough, yet in the eyes of the government and on paper, you’re dead.” For the first time since they’d met the smile completely drips off his face. “Startled by the horrific nature of your crime, you turned the knife on yourself. Bleed to death before the authorities could reach you. The cowards way out. Too cowardly of someone of your status. No, nobles tend to enjoy the aftermath. They tend to want to stick around.”

“So that’s it then?” He wants to be angry, to get furious at the condescension and presumption, but his voice stays low and level. “You just figured I didn’t kill myself? Despite every news outlet in the country saying otherwise? Tell me, and tell me the truth this time. What sent you on this fool's errand?”

He shrugs again, but this time that easy, languid smile is back on his face. “I’ll give you that, you’re a pretty hard person to find.” He clasps his hands together, placing them above the ruins of their game. “But believe me I wasn’t sent by anyone. _I sought you out_ _because_ _I wanted to._ ”

He...he doesn’t really know what to think of that.“You...don’t know what you're getting into.” 

“Oh sure I do, I’m getting into your prison cell for about…” He looks down at an expensive looking watch, “About an hour or so.” There's that grin again. “I’m just interested in your side of the story, full stop. Well, I should go. Think about my offer, will you?”

The man packs the wooden pieces into their correct spots, and the silence that settles over them is less palpable than before. It is only as he watches the man stand to go that he notices the jewel hanging from his visitor’s ear. It’s small and yellow, and shines of two different colors.


	2. In for a Penny...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude maybe in over his head with this one. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

There’s something not right about this whole situation. He’s gone over the notes more than he’d like to admit, but the details given in all the reports just don’t line up.  _ “The subject is violent and unable to discern fantasy from reality. Proceed with caution.” _ That’s a given, Claude notes as his hand reaches up to ghost the curve of his neck and the bruise that once sat there. But even that wasn’t necessarily the “subject’s” fault. Two doses of Rohypnol, once in the morning, and another at night. This man shouldn’t be alive, much less awake. And yet Claude peers through the one way glass and just watches. Watches as he paces back and forth in that small, beige room, eyes low to the ground as if he’s searching for something. 

Sometimes a pressure builds in his chest and Claude wonders if this is right. If keeping this man isolated and tranquilized is any better than just outright killing him. And then he remembers why he was brought here, and that feeling lessens slightly. 

But it never goes away.

He looks down at the report again.  _ “The subject possesses strength far greater than any human. These biological differences have gone unscrutinized due to the violent nature of the subject. Proceed with caution.” _ Perhaps that’s why horse tranquilizers barely touch the man. Claude shuffles his papers and looks up once more to see-

-to see the subject, to see Dimitri, staring at him. His eyes are cold and icy, and he’s staring right at him. Claude’s breath hitches in his throat and he’s caught like a deer in headlights, held captive by the gaze of a man locked behind two inches of Plexiglas and four-inch thick concrete walls. 

Dimitri. Clause wasn't even aware of his name, wasn’t given the clearance of his subject’s identity until the day he was allowed to enter that cell. He thought it overkill at first. It’s just one man, how dangerous could he be? But then he was given his file.  _ “...the resulting carnage was immense. Two of the four officers sent to subdue the subject were pronounced dead at the scene. The first died of lack of oxygen due to both lungs collapsing due to overwhelming physical trauma. The second had been decapitated.” _ On paper, the rendering was impersonal and detached. Claude would have thought nothing of it, if he hadn't seen the pictures that accompanied it. There were only two images available in the file. The first was of a mangled body clad in what once might have passed for riot gear. The picture is focused on the upper middle chest, and what portions of the limbs that can be seen at this angle are mangled and twisted in unnatural ways. But the focus of the picture is on the officer's sternum, which had broken skin and clothing. Erupting out of the officer's chest in a way that could only be deemed as grisly and barbaric.

The second photo spared Claude another image of death, but instead captured the wreckage of the room. A wooden desk splintered into a thousand pieces, blood and gore smeared across the floor, a wall collapsed in on itself shaking the foundation of the entire structure. The image is a blurry yet the macabre quality of the photo comes through as clear as day. And yet, neither of these photos seem to encompass the man Claude’s spent months of his life trying to understand. What would make a man lash out with such fury, only to completely shut down. And what does he know, that they don't. What has kept him alive for this long?

Claude is brought back to reality when Dimitri brakes eye contact, and begins his pacing once more. And Claude decides that he’s spent enough time inside and out of the fish bowl.

\---------

“Claude,” Lorenz says when Claude returns to the office side of his career. There’s a lot more paperwork in keeping a political prisoner than one might first assume, and Lorenz was put in charge of that aspect of the job. Lorenz was a tall slip of a man, and the status of his office was so important to him, that it expressed itself in any way it possibly could, and for Lorenz, that was his fashion. His ties are impeccably tied and his shoes are always shined and his hair is...purple. It’s possible that the hair is just a holdover from his more rebellious years, but he’s so haughty that Claude can’t imagine him ever coloring outside the lines, much less dying his hair. 

Whatever brought him to this line of work, Lorenz is tasked with circumventing the hole in the government’s budget left by keeping Dimitri fed and this building running, and as far as Claude knew him, he did his job well. He was also less than personable. “I trust you have something to report?” It wasn't a question as much as it was a thinly veiled threat, and coming from what was once his superior officer, he can’t help but tip his chin up ever so slightly to look this man in his eyes and smile.

“I haven’t had anything to report for the past four months,” Claude says with a measured amount of casualness in his voice. “What makes you think today is any different?”

“I assure you, the security cameras can not lie. What did he tell you?” Another threat posing as a question. Cute.

Claude lets a smile play on his lips and he turns to face his companion head on. “Well, you  _ are _ the one with the tapes. Why don’t you tell me?” Claude is...aware of the office conduct poster hanging in the break room. And the one hanging from the fridge. And the one that mysteriously appeared on his desk yesterday afternoon. But when it’s  _ this _ easy to get under someone’s skin, it would be crueler  _ not _ too. Really, he’s doing the world a favor at this point.

__ “Regian, I’ll have you know that it was on my authority to allow your little parlor game nights. I should expect a small amount of gratitude to say the least.”

“And I’m sure that same authority had a hand in Dimitri’s torture as well.” Is what Claude wants to respond with. But he doesn’t. That, he knows, was a group effort. Instead of passing judgement, he simply shrugs.

“And you will receive just that,” Hubert von Vestra injects. Unlike Claude’s needlessly loud co-worker, the man that could be considered his actual boss was silent, preferring to slink in the shadows. He dressed in contrast to his deathly pale skin and there was something unnerving about his presence. It was possibly his unnerving stature, being even taller than Lorenz, but there's something more to it than that. Still, he continues. “But first, I would like to congratulate our newest employee.” The man’s dark fringe cover’s one of his eyes, but nevertheless, his gaze is piercing.

It sends a chill down Claude’s spine, but he schools his face into it’s default smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“I will be looking forward to reading your report.” Hubert smiles, but it looks oddly out of place on his features. “And please,” He looks pointedly at Lorenz. “Do not let anything slow that report from reaching my desk.”

‘Of course.” Lorenz says, predictably sliding back into line.

The two watch Hubert retreat into an elevator and hold his gaze as the doors slowly close. Claude then smiles with faux shyness at Lorenz, “You heard the man.” 

Lorenz emits something between and groan and an exasperated sigh, but he does as asked, and makes himself scarce. Claude experiences exactly one (1) minute of calm before he feels a familiar weight at his side. 

“You know,” Hilda muses as she hooks her arm around his shoulders, “I think Lorenz might just be jealous of you.”

Claude rolls his eyes, but can’t help the fond smile from forming on his lips.”What made you think that?” He likes Hilda. She's smart and straight forward, even if she doesn't exude those qualities. But what she does exude is flirtation. She is as loud as her bubblegum colored hair, and her clothing also reflects her personality, but not in the way one would expect. She liked to stretch the meaning of the words ‘dress code’ preferring the …’less is more’ approach. She is then able to get many of the interns and more lower level staff to do her job for her. 

Claude once witnessed her pull a man aside and all she had to do was ask before he was running off to fulfill one task or another. When he’d asked her why, she simply shrugged and stated “why work harder, when you can work smarter?” They have been friends ever since.

Hilda wasn’t tasked with much around the office, just foreign relations. And given her background this makes sense. Her older brother, Holst was the face of foreign relations between Fódlan and Almyra, so It makes sense that she would find her way to this post. 

“We’ll, I wouldn’t be all smiles and rainbows either if I were booted as head of this our so proclaimed super-secret project.” Hilda says plainly knocking Claude back into reality, “Even less so if the newbie they brought in got more done in a few months than I did in a few years.” Oh Hilda, he could always count on her to be almost too honest with him. “Congrats by the way.”

“Congrats for what?”

“Oh, you know, discovering the Rosetta Stone? Cracking the code? Unraveling the mystery?” She snickers, “Seriously though, Congrats. We should, you know, celebrate.”

“You’re just looking for a reason to drink.” 

“And you’ve just provided me a really, really, good reason too.”

Claude sighs fondly, “Fine, but  _ only _ after I’m done with my report.” 

Hilda just smiles and releases him from her half-hug. “Yea, yea, sure. I’ll tell Marianne and we’ll meet you at the Lucid Wyvern, ok?”

And with that, his afternoon was stolen. Not that he minded, it would be nice to get away from the mundanity that is office life, at least for a while.

\--------

The Lucid Wyvern is less of a bar and more of a lounge for the wealthy. Situated at the very top of a skyscraper, the bar is split into two segments. The bar aspect, and the pool situated just outside. The pool is less of an actual amenity and is more a really expensive decoration. It is lit from below by these strong neon blue lights, and the water that filters it, leaves the pool looking fantastical and dream-like. And through closed glass doors, it adds to the skyline nicely. Jazz music filters through the other side of the venue, and permeates the quiet conversations held by people sipping overpriced martini’s and taking in the muted atmosphere.

Claude is not one of those people tonight. He drinks socially, as Hilda drinks liberally and Marianne, well, she doesn’t drink at all. Still, filtered through the smoke and mirrors, Claude is enjoying himself. Hilda with her cheeks ruddied, and dress straps slipping from their place, raises her glass,”Another round, please!”

Marianne is also red (for an entirely different reason) and concerned herself with fixing Hilda’s clothing. “I...I think we’re ok, Hilda.” Her voice was only a hair louder than the music, but despite her flustered look, she seemed to be enjoying herself as well. Which is surprising considering her timid nature. She was the director of emotional and psychological resources at the office, but here, she was just Marianne, friend of Hilda’s and friendly acquaintance of Claude’s.

Hilda simply leans back, laying her head against the backrest of their booth and looks at Marianne with a lazy smile, “But we need to toast.”

It takes a moment for Marianne to respond. It’s cute. Hopefully they get together soon. Claude might be new to the office, but he’s sure he’s put his money on the right betting pool. “A toast to what?”

“To...to…” Hilda loses her train of thought, and that's what pulls a laugh from Claude’s lips. Leave it to Hilda to forget exactly what she’s celebrating. Their waiter is delivering drinks when Hilda stops buffering and shouts, “To our resident miracle worker, Claude!”

The waiter, instead of being annoyed at their raucousness, smiles. “What’s the occasion?”

“Claude,” Hilda starts gesturing in his vague direction. Probably a little too to the right, but her heart is in it at least. “He-”

“Got a promotion!” Marianne says quickly and audibly this time. “Claude got a promotion, isn’t that wonderful?”

Marianne is a wonderful friend and coworker, but a horrible actress. That couldn't have sounded less natural if she tried. And yet their waiter is seemingly unperturbed, turns to Claude and smirks. His eyes are friendly enough, but something about him looks familiar. He looks Claude up and down, “So, you’re the man of the hour, huh?”

It is possible that Claude is reading this whole situation wrong. It’s happened before. “It's possible.” He says.

“Well, would it be possible for me to celebrate with you? My shift is over in about an hour or so.”

That's a proposition if Claude’s ever heard one. He looks to his friend’s just to gauge the situation, but Hilda’s already slumped against Marianne’s shoulder, rising and falling progressively faster with Marianne’s progressively faster heartbeat. “I-I’ll...I have to get Hilda home now. I’m sorry Claude.”

Again, cute. “Have fun, you too.” Claude calls out as he watches the two leave. He’ll have to remember to collect that bet on Monday. 

The waiter slides into the now newly vacant seat across from Claude and smirks, “How about we keep this party going?” From this new perspective Claude can see that this guy is… nice looking. About his age, with unruly hair and a charming smile. “I’ll buy you another round, just pick your poison.”

Fuck it. “Surprise me.”

\---------------

They end up making out in the bathroom.

It’s a messy, needy thing that leaves Claude a disheveled panting mess. His arms are locked behind this stranger’s neck, and he’s leaning back against the bathroom stall, feeling the thrum of far away jazz and this strange man’s hands at his waist and everything feels- it’s overwhelming.

The fluorescent lights seem to take everything far closer to the edge. It emphasizes the dark circles under the other’s eyes, and his unruly hair shines more copper than red in this artificial light. The green tile reflects onto the dull stainless steel, and tinges everything a sickly green. Something...something’s not right here. 

Everything feels heavy. He breaks the kiss to breathe, and his partner is gracious in his rebuffing, leaning against the opposing stall wall. Claude peers up at his face, and watches as his blush calms from the flaming red of his hair, to a more natural color. “Sorry,” Claude says finally, “I didn’t realize this could be so...intense.” 

For his part, the man himself takes the rebuffment in stride, and lets that be known with a signature smile. “It's fine, I get that a lot.”

Claude huffs, “That you’re intense?”

“No: sorry.”

That gets Claude to chuckle a moment, and he thinks, he might actually like this guy. And then Claude actually  _ looks _ at him.“I- I know you.” The red head frowns, but makes no move to leave the cramped stall. The air between them begins to chill. “Your Sylvain, Eldest Son of the Guatier family.” Spouting off facts gives Claude time to think. To plan. 

Sylvain’s name came up several times in that file. He was the one to publicly take the fall. Sentenced to life, he was supposed to die in prison. Instead, Slyvain’s sentence was pardoned, and he vanished into obscurity not long after. “Your reputation precedes you.” Claude says, now realizing just how tight of a squeeze this stall was for two.

“Now you’ve got me at a disadvantage, I don’t know anything about you.” That charming smile of his looks stiff and practiced in this light, like a stiff breeze could rip him apart at the seems.

“Don’t lie to me. You singled me out for a reason. There were plenty of drunk people at that bar, I want to know why you picked me.”

Slyvain sighs under his breath “...damn it all.” He looks up at Claude, eyebrows pressed firmly together,”Look I know where you know work, and I know what you do.”

“Ok, ok. Fine, you know all this stuff about me, but what is it that you  _ want. _ ” Claude demands.

“I want what you can’t give.”

“And what might that be?”

“...Anonymity.” Slyvain says eventually. “You can go where you choose, and there’s power in that.”

“Hm, not enough, apparently. You were able to pick me out of a crowd pretty easily.” Claude shrugs. “And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality.”

Sylvain gives him a sympathetic look, “I’m sorry, but you of all people should know how it feels to be judged on looks alone.” 

That makes Claude pause and then sigh, “You have to tell me what you want for me to help you.”

“I need to see him. I have to see Dimitri.”

“No.”

“You  _ just  _ said that you could help.”

“I never said I could work miracles.”

Slyvain pauses, “Look, I was friend’s with Dimitri as a kid.” he’s wringing his hands now, “Get me into that room, and I might be able to...I don’t know,  _ fix  _ him. Anything. I don’t know, I could help him.”

Sylvain is desperate, but Claude might be more so. The offer he left Dimitri with doesn’t guarantee anything, not his consent, and certainly not his life. And so, in this interaction, he sees something more, and in a bid to save someone else’s life they agree to help each other. They exchange numbers in that clammy, dank bathroom, and part ways. 

\------

It’s late when Claude returns home that night, tipsy and slightly on edge due to that encounter with Dimitri's living ghost. He’s sat at his desk, looking at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands, wondering how the hell he was going to make good on a promise like that.

“How was it?”

Claude looks up at the blurry figure leaning against the door. He pulls his glasses down over his eyes. “Oh, It’s you.” 

“Yea, were you expecting someone else?” Cyril asks, taking up vigil near the window, before continuing “oh wait, you couldn’t be waiting for anyone. I don’t think anyone you hang out with is up for parole.”

Claude snickers at that, before looking up at the clock, “I’m actually expecting a phone call… ”

“Someone’s wasting their one phone call on you?”

“Haha, you're such a smart ass.” Claude says through a smile, “You know, I’m starting to think Lysthia is a bad influence on you.”

Cyril flushes at the mention of his tutor, and he pointedly looks out out the window. He’d had a crush on the girl the moment they’d been introduced. “W-well, your”- he gestures wildly- “ your prison project or whatever this is, is a bad influence on  _ you _ .” He turns to face Claude, with a more stern expression etched onto his face this time. “Be serious for a second, how much sleep have you gotten since you started all this?”

“Oh would you relax? It’s not like it’ll-“ Claude’s cut off by an impeccably timed yawn. “It’s not like it’ll kill me. Oh don’t make that face.”

“What face?” Cyril says innocently enough though his squared shoulders say more than he ever would. “I just thought I’d let mom know how we’re doin-“ He reaches for the phone just as Claude reaches for his forearm. 

He clasps his fingers around Cyril’s wrist, then releases like he’s touched a hot stove. “I- I’m sorry. But I’m finally getting somewhere on this case and I can’t let this slip pas-“

“It’s ok.” Claude looks Cyril in the face, pointedly ignoring how he rubs at his arm. He’s searching for any hint of deception, but Claude knows his brother. Cyril is earnest and hard working and kind. He isn’t the type to hide anything. The antithesis of himself really. His thoughts must show on his face because Cyril smiles. “I was just joking. I didn’t tattle when he used your neck as his favorite rattle, I doubt I’ll have much to say when he blinks twice in one session.” There’s something else there, sitting unsaid between them, but Claude let’s Cyril steer the conversation, “But now you have to tell me. What happened? Did your stupid speech work?”

“Speech?”

Cyril fixes him with a look. “Uh, Yeah. The speech you’ve been practicing all week. It goes like: ‘Something something, change, something, colors, yada yada yada are you gonna tell me your life story or not?’” He says that last part so quickly that the words just run together in a jumbled mess.

Claude’s worried his sides actually split open when he chuckles this time. “Tha-that’s accurate. But it’s not like you’re any better! I hear you pacing around in your room all night going: You’ve taught me so much, please teach me of the matter of the heart-“ 

Cyril flushes a vibrant red and clamps his hands over Claude’s mouth “There's no way I would say anything that cheesy!”

It only takes a moment for the two to collapse into a fit of laughter. Cyril doesn’t laugh much these days, but for a moment, it’s like they’re kids again. They settle into a pleasant silence, and Claude hopes the topic will drop. There’s too many pieces at play to involve Cyril right now.

Of course that’s too much to ask, as Cyril pipes up again. “I’m just saying that according to you, the big bad of Fargus is about as interesting as a goldfish. Or a pet rock.”

“Oh he’s way more interesting than that.” Claude stretches over the back of his office chair, and they’re both treated to a chorus of crackling pops. “I got him to talk today.”

Cyril's eyes widened at that, “What did he say then?”

“Nothing interesting. Mostly just ‘why’.” Claude says, hopefully implying their meeting to be far less interesting than it actually was. Cyril doesn’t seem to be taking the bait, but luckily, the phone rings at that very moment. “And there’s my cue. Go to bed already.”

“Alright, alright. Goodnight." As he crests the door frame, Cyril turns back to look at him. "You know I love you, right?”

“Yea, I know, I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Thanks for reading! Sooo...do you like the mystery i'm trying to weave? It's going to be pretty intense if I do say so myself, but Hopefully it will be as fun to read as it is to write! Switching POV's is going to be a pretty regular occurrence. I just really want to explore how these character's would react in a myster setting instead of a fantasy. I also put a lot of my own head cannon's in here. Claude and Cyril are siblings, and Slyvain is a bond girl because i felt like it. Im trying to establish everyone's character motivations and stuff, hopefully that came across. I might be able to update sooner, now that I have a lot more time on my hands... Take care guys.


	3. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past clings to some more than others.

Cyrus didn’t like the city all that much. It was beautiful, in that way that most cities are. Shiny, metallic and reflective, both in it’s surfaces and the people who lived there. Their buildings climbed high above the clouds and their fingertips barely felt the warmth of the sun's rays, as if one day they would hang the stars in the sky. It was a site to behold, those metal titans all grasping at greatness. But even more jarring then their outward appearance was the way in which the city moved. It was a sea of constant motion, fast and strong like a current he could barely tread, much less escape. It was a culture of speed and artificiality and it wasn’t the world he knew. He’d mistake the sound of a car rushing past as a shift in the wind and almost get himself killed. And that soft, omnipresent glow just outside his window was never the sun. It was always the obscenely bright headlights of a car, or a streetlamp or something else that made the night so vaguely threatening that sleep escaped him. He’d found himself operating on autopilot. Doing whatever was asked of him, and then simply staring into the middle distance wondering if he would feel that familiarity of home ever again.

Cyrus had never felt so out isolated as when he’d taken his first steps onto Fodlan soil. It was only years later, when he’d met his brother once again on these foreign shores did he finally feel at peace. Their reunion was hushed, squirreled away behind closed doors and away from prying eyes, but it was the first time in years that he was gazed upon with benevolence instead of contempt, and he welcomed those arms that twined their way around his shoulders even if he’d forgotten how to accept that touch. It was only when Khalid whispered “I missed you,” into the oily matted mess of his hair, did he break down. He cried for what seemed like hours when, realistically it could have only been a few minutes. But he didn’t care. It was the first time he’d felt at home in years.

Cyrus’ time in Fodlan changed him from the child he once was into...someone else. The kind of person who followed orders in the face of their own survival. The kind of person scrubbed of all personality and identity and he hated himself for it. Fodland had molded him, spun him about like a rock tumbler only to spit him out, smooth and polished and so much smaller than he once was. It was too much to ask it leave Khalid untouched. His brother spoke that strange language with the confidence of a native speaker, his accent all but completely gone as he navigated this social landscape with a fineness and social grace Cyrus had never seen. Even when speaking to the man with rose colored hair, Khaild never let the smile slip from his face. He’d become a part of the city, that world that was so far out of Cyrus’ reach and it hurt more than anything. Khalid’s thoughts raced faster than his voice could carry them, and he’d switch languages as fluidly as water flowing downstream, unknowingly leaving Cyrus to drown in its wake. And in turn, Cyrus withdrew. He worked, cleaning and cooking until his fingers bled because hard work knows no country or border. And it was there where he found his voice again. A mug of coffee to symbolize a good morning. A pat on the back as a goodbye. It wasn’t perfect or nuanced, but it was something. Their own shared language built from the shattered pieces of their past.

He wasn’t surprised when Khalid offered to take him home, but Khalid was surprised when he’d turned him down. “I don’t want to go back. But I don’t want to be here either. I want to stay with you.” He was all he could say, voice thick and raspy with disuse. It was the truth. Khalid was Cyrus’ crutch. That single anchor to which he clung. He couldn’t go back to Almyra, as broken as he was, but Fodlan was a hell of it’s own and he was lost among it’s flames. He was a broken puzzle piece, belonging nowhere, but Khalid still cared. Even if he couldn’t find his place among the world, at least he wasn’t alone. Khalid had just nodded, wringing his hands in that way he did when he was nervous all those years ago. There were some things that never changed.

And so they learned to live around each other. It was difficult at first. Those intrusive thoughts would creep up on Cyrus and suddenly a broken dish became something worth hiding, holding his bleeding hands behind his back as Khalid raced forward, flinching despite knowing that Khalid only meant to help. He’d spent too many days apologizing as Khalid pulled those pale ceramic shards from his skin. But Khalid was never angry, and once, he even cried when Cyrus sought him out. “It hurts less when you do it.”

Khalid had his own scars, although they were far less obvious, presenting themselves in the nightmares that stole those precious moments of sleep. But sometimes at night, when the lights of the city kept them both up, Cyrus would find Khalid in the living room, eyes on the television. And the two would just sit in each other's presence, Khalid listening intently to whatever was playing while Cyrus simply reveled in the white noise. It wasn’t the relationship they once had, but it was something. 

Khalid earned his second degree, and they celebrated with bademjan and jeweled rice. It was the first time Cyrus had tried to make anything more complicated than plain rice, and it turned out ok. It reminded him of home. And when he’d broken down into tears and Khalid pulled him into a hug and offered to get take-out instead, Cyrus didn’t object. 

Then one day, Khalid asked him to go by a different name: Cyril. He rolled the word around on his tongue. The name fit oddly in his mouth, as if the word itself was rejecting him. He could never say it the way Khalid- Claude did, effortlessly and clear. But as odd as it once was, the new names made things easier, in a way. He could stop expecting things from Khalid because he wasn’t Khalid anymore, he was Claude, the one with the silver tongue and the degrees that lined the hallway of their small apartment. And Claude stopped expecting things from Cyrus because he wasn’t Cyrus anymore. He couldn’t smile and laugh like the boy he once was but that was ok. With every degree of separation came a sense of ease. 

But change never comes in small pieces, and everything began to move all at once, like the gears of a clock that had suddenly begun to tick once more. Claude started working for the government and would regale him with stories of obnoxious co-workers and water cooler drama, and Cyril began to open up, advising him to be more pragmatic about his work relationships. It wasn’t perfect, his grasp of the language was still shaky at best, but it was nice to see his brother with his head somewhere outside of a book for once. Things were changing for Cyril as well, but for the better for once. 

Cyril started to venture out ever so often. At first it was for small things, Claude would ask him to run an errand, or buy whatever was on their shopping list that week, and Cyril did it without complaint. And eventually, he started to like the way his legs could carry him further and further with every subsequent request. Until one day, he’d found himself gazing up at this incredibly intricate building. It was only a few blocks away from the apartment he shared with his brother, and so, was squished between two other residential homes. It was grand and short in comparison to the skyscrapers all around, as if in defiance of the modern landscape surrounding it. Gothic and pointed where any other building would be squared off and sanded down. It looked as out of place as Cyril.

The door didn’t resist when he pushed it open, just to peer inside. It was dark, save for the light that streamed through that stained-glass window. It depicted a woman with light green hair and a kind smile besieged on all sides by white lilies. But more than that, it was quiet. The commotion of outside was silenced, and that rapid flow of motion was stemmed. He ventured as far as he could risk into that quieten space, to sit at the very back of a dusty pew and listen to nothing.

A girl’s voice cuts through the silence and pulls him from his thoughts. He starts to panic, and ‘sorrys’ fall from his mouth like water from a faucet. But the girl with pale eyes and paler still hair, simply offers him a lopsided smile. “It’s ok.” He would have noticed how hesitant and small her voice was when she spoke his native tongue, but he’s more surprised that she knew any of his language at all. 

“It is a beautiful building.” Is all he can say.

“It is. Are you a follower of Serios?” She asks, thumbing the sleeve of her purple sweater. It’s such a stark contrast to her pale skin, it almost looks like she’s glowing in this sparse light.

Cyril catches himself staring, and shakes his head so fast he might break his neck. “No, I’m sorry- I’ll leave.” He stands to go, but she catches his sleeve. 

“Please don’t. I want to dust the pews, and it would be nice not to do it alone for a change.” Her accent made the words sound awkward to his ear, but the earnestness in her voice was enough to win him over. And that was how he spent his afternoon, wiping down pews (in spite of the girl’s instance that she didn’t need help) and just talking. He learned a lot in that one afternoon. Like how her name was Lysethia, and that she was only a year younger than him but was already halfway through getting a degree in linguistics, and how she was only a few years into learning Amyrian. He was impressed at her albeit shaky command over the language, and had confessed that despite being in fodlan for most of his life he only knew a cursory amount of the national language.

“I could help you with it.” She said, standing on the tips of her toes, as if it would somehow help her reach the top of the support beam.

“And I could help you,” Cyril found himself saying as he took the old dust cloth from her hands and got that last bit of grime, “If you’ll let me, that is.” He was so caught up in cleaning the pillar that he didn’t notice her lack of response until he dared to look her way and caught her staring.

It was her turn now to furiously shake her head, “I’m not one to ask for help...but I’ll make the exception for you. If you help me clean the church on tuesdays, I'll help you learn the language. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. Deal?”

He didn’t know what he was agreeing to when he’d clasped her hand in his. For one, she wasn’t kidding when she’d said she didn’t ask for help. Lysithea was...sharp. In everything, her features, her mind, her voice, all cutting and fierce with everyone but him. It was almost comical the way her demeanor would change when her friends would stop by the church, only to find her perched on his shoulders, getting that last bit of dirt off the stained glass. That was another thing about her. She refused help of any kind. Even with him, she always went out of her way to do something in return, be it bringing coffee to their study sessions, or simply doing more cleaning before he’d arrived. 

Eventually, Claude found out about his, “new friend?! Why didn’t you tell me?!” Claude was so happy at the mention of Lysethia that he had him promise right there, in the kitchen of their cramped little apartment at 3am, to invite her over for dinner next he saw her.

Cyril was cooking when she’d arrived, unfortunately leaving Claude to answer the door. And when Claude saw her for the first time, done up in her signature purple sweater, and wispy white hair falling down her back, he’d shouted (in Almyrian, oh god he thought he was being cleaver!) “Cyril! Your girlfriend’s as cute as you said she was!” 

Cyril, for his part- skids to the front door, face flushed with a wooden spoon still in hand and and warning halfway out of his mouth- mortifyingly as Lythsethia responds (in Almyrian) with a lilting “Thank you” and a blush of her own. 

Claude looks at her, then Cyril, then her, and a smile breaks out on his face, “She’s a keeper.” Truly, the gods have not smiled upon him this night. Dinner is just as awkward and embarrassing as that first introduction, but surprising, he doesn’t care. He’s too busy having fun. The food is good and the company is better, and he’s starting to feel normal. 

Dinner together becomes a regular occurrence, and Cyril starts teaching Lysethia the more complicated aspects of speaking Almyrian. It’s a welcomed change, and he was beginning to like his new normal. He’d only messed up once. It was after dinner, Cyril was washing out the pots and pans, and Lythethia was looking over at him curiously, “I’ll help you,” She says, rolling up her sleeves. Cyril shakes his head and reaches for the dish drying rag, , “It’s ok, there’s not much left to do anyway.”

“But I’ll-” Lythethia is stubborn. She is stubborn and good and kind and always means well in her intentions. She doesn’t know what she’s doing when her fingers clamp around his wrist and suddenly he’s back in that place with those people alone and scared and unsure of everything he does because no one can tell him otherwise until it's too late. The glass shatters in his hand, compressed by those thoughts years old but still feeling brand new. It feels like a popped stitch. A reopened wound that bleeds and bleeds, and drowns everything out. He’s barely aware of the pitying look on Lysethia’s face as she’s gently ushered out of their home. 

When he finally comes back to himself, he’s on the couch, with his hand out stretched while Claude is rifling through the first-aid kit. He closes his eyes and signs as the tears fall from his eyes. He sniffles, and Claude’s hands still, before he picks up the forceps and tweezers. The gause is already out on the table. Claude’s voice is quiet when he says, “You know, when I found you again, I didn’t think I’d be spending so much on first-aid.” He uses the tweezers to pull the smallest shards that radiate from the bigger wounds. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. “I don’t know how many band-aids I’ve gone through.” This time, his voice takes on a forced lightness.

“Am I broken?” He doesn’t think when he asks. Cyril is Cyrus in that moment and Cyrus doesn’t think. Cyrus can’t think or feel or do anything for himself, and the moment he feel’s that normalcy just barely within his grasp, it shatters into nothingness. He was so,  _ so close _ and-

“No more than I am.” Claude says, and this time, it’s not forced. It’s an admission, if anything. A confession in light of everything they’ve been through. “But If we’re both broken, we can help fix each other up, hm?” He offers. Cyril looks down at his hand. It’s no longer bloody and lacerated. He can still see the scars, some old and faded and silvery, and others newer. The stitches are clumsily done, but they hold strong.

“Yea,” Cyril says eventually, “Your right, we help each other.”

Claude smiles, and begins to wrap the gauze around his hand, for not the first time, and probably not for the last, but that's ok too, because he'll always be there to patch him up again.

And...eventually, with a little (a lot) of prodding from Claude, he pushes those church door’s open once more. He feels just as awkward and shy as he was the first time he’d step foot in that holy place, but Lythethia is waiting for him, with that soft smile that’s reserved just for him. “I’m glad you came back.”

“I am too.” He says, all hesitation just melting away.

She invites him to sit in the far pew, closest to the doors. It was their favorite spot. “Claude told me- not everything, but...bits and pieces.” She says after a moment. He suddenly can’t look her way, worried of finding pity in those pale pink eyes. “I’m sorry, I should have been more aware of you. I should have listened.” He finally gains the strength to look her in the eyes, only to find them clouded with tears. “I- I’m-”

“It’s ok, you couldn’t have known.” Cyril says, and he genuinely means it. He’s not thinking when he reaches out and wipes her tears away with a bandage thumb. Everything is silent, and still in the church, and she’s looking at him with those wide beautiful eyes, shock registering on her face, and suddenly his thoughts catch up with his actions. Oh goodness he can’t believe he’d just done that! Oh my gosh, she’s gonna hate him forever! Why did he do something so stupid! His inner turmoil outwardly looks like he’s short circuited, blown a fuse and possibly died from all the blood rushing to his face. But Lythesia just laughs, and takes his hand. It’s still tender, but her touch is gentle and she looks him in the eyes and says, “You're such a nerd. How are you gonna help me clean now?” He’s still dumb founded by how perfect she is in that moment. All smiles and jokes despite everything. And when she looks at him, he doesn’t feel broken. The cracks are still there, but they’re mending. “I guess you’ll have to make it up for me, how about dinner? This time at my place.”

He can only nod in the face of that overwhelming kindness.

Now, the city isn’t so bad. It’s still blindingly fast and relentless, but he’s not afraid anymore. He has people he cares about, and they care about him too. He still misses his home, those hot lazy days. But the brisk winds of Fodlan are growing on him. Lythethia taps a pencil on his nose, “Am I going too fast?” They’re sitting at the kitchen table, going through the motions of learning the vocabulary of another language. His mind had wandered so far that he’d forgotten what he was doing, but not Lysethia, she was always on task. “I could slow down, a bit if you want.”

“Yea, that’d be nice.”

\-----

The door jingles halfway into their study group, and Cyril turns in his chair to welcome Claude back home. But that's not him who walks through that door. She’s pretty, with big eyes and long rose colored hair that falls down her back from a high ponytail. The color, it reminds him of blood, washed out and but still fresh. And when she smiles, it's all teeth. “Hi! Oh you must Cyril, Claude’s told me so much about you!” She offers him a hand, and it’s like the breath is ripped from his lungs. He throws up, and heaves and heaves onto the tile. His head spins and eyes water and nothing makes sense anymore. 

_ Who is she, and why does she know Claude? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a big departure from the main story line, but I promise it's here for a reason!!
> 
> 1\. I picked the name Cyrus because its Persian, and Persia is one of the main inspirations of Almlyra (as far as I've been able to research). And it's a beautiful name.
> 
> 2\. This Cyril's a little different from cannon Cyril, for one, he hasn't been in Fodlan for nearly as long. He's 14 at the start, and 19 by the end of this chapter. I wanted to showcase how difficult the language barrier can be to over come, and how isolating it can be to live in a place where no one understands you. I also wanted to delve into how horrifying his situation really was. I know they only mention it once in his support with Hilda, but you would think his status as a "kidnapped orphan of war" wouldn't be such a glossed over topic. Cannon Cyril is very well adjusted for what had happened to him. My Cyril however, is a little less...ok. It's not a one-to-one comparison, what Cannon Cyril and this Cyril went through are two very different things, but I hope I got across how horrific that scenario would have been to live through. 
> 
> 3\. I love Hilda. I love her to death, but there's something so insidious about the way the fandom ignore her faults. She's going to get her chance to explain her side of the story later, but I wanted to explore how ignorance scars people. Just know she's going to get her own development. I refuse to do my girl dirty like that.
> 
> 4\. I just love Cyril as a character, he experienced something horrifically traumatic and was able to overcome it and become the person he wanted to be...which just so happens to be a very dry, pragmatic person (Listen we all have our faults). I just think he's a inspirational character, and I really enjoyed trying to see what his and Claude's relationship could have been like if they'd handled him with more care. I dunno. I'm rambling.
> 
> 4\. Cyril and Lysithea are the cutest and no one can tell me otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many papers to write but I love Claude and Dimitri so much I had to write something. Political prisoners are a very interesting subject, as reputation plays almost as much as a role in their punishment, as their own actions. I wanted to explore the notion of a modern rule of law within the universe of three-houses. At the same time, the effects of isolation were also worth exploring, and there was no other character I could pick for that. Thanks for reading!


End file.
